Archive for the ‘Karma Police’ Category

By now you certainly are all well aware of the fact that Disney, in conjunction with Adele Dazeem Idina Menzel and the entire winter season, are conspiring to make your children gay. Most people are choosing to focus on the potentially-gay shopkeeper and the lyrics of the movie’s theme song, “Let it Go,” which could definitely be about accepting your identity as an Ice Queenfarting coming out of the closet. Deciding that those were a smoke screen for something far more insidious, I decided to take a closer look. And let me tell you, when you are on a mission to find something that could possibly be perceived as gay, you just might find something that could possibly be perceived as gay. I would like to report my findings here. Shall we start at the beginning? Okay, yes. Let’s.

1. The hetero parents are killed off within the first 10 minutes of the movie, leaving the impressionable daughters to fend off all of The Gayness by themselves. In Europe. Touché, Gay Agenda. Touché.

2. Everybody is focusing on “Let it Go,” but what of “For the First Time in Forever”?

5. Take the word ‘lesbian’ and unscramble it. What words do you see there? I, because I am looking long and hard for these things, see ‘Elsa.’ I see ‘bi.’ I also see ‘An,’ which is maybe what Elsa calls Anna for short. Maybe? Or probably? Let’s go with probably.

Now, this list is not complete. I’ve only seen the movie 3 times. Once it is out on DVD, I plan to watch it daily until I have found every dirty, little gay trick that Disney has managed to sneak into this movie. I will not rest until there is not a single child out there who can enjoy this movie for what Disney claims that it is: a fun musical about strong sisters who love each other unconditionally. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and find a suitable movie for my little, hetero darlings. Hopefully something with the usual violence and misogyny that we, as the moral compasses of this country, have an obligation to force-feed our children. Try as they might, The Gays will not distract me from this mission. The moral sanctity of future generations depends upon it.

I have doctored uncovered evidence that Disney’s plot began in the mid-1990s. Sneaky bastards.

I’ve been sick and, when I’m sick, people are more irritating. I don’t view this increased judgment as a fault of mine but rather as a specialized genetic trait that I’ve developed, much like a blind person who can smell (and thus avoid) the dog shit on the sidewalk while their sighted peers stride right into it, unawares. My brain, when given the opportunity to take a break from its usual self-obsessing, instead focuses in on the many, many faults of those around me. Those who sneeze without covering and turning; those who smoke with children in their car; those who scrawl obscene graffiti onto the walls of elementary schools and churches; those who quietly return a library book without coming clean about the fact that their child vomited on page 27… The truth of the matter is, most people should be locked up, far, far away from the general population. Now that I’m feeling a bit better, I have had some time to reflect upon my observations. Here’s the thing:

1. There are two types of people in the world. There are the people who put the plastic divider behind their items on the grocery store conveyor belt and then there are the total and complete sociopaths. Listen, the person in front of you kindly placed a divider between their groceries and yours so buck up and pass on the good karma. Or would you prefer to burn in hell? Your choice.

2. If I let you into traffic and you fail to give a little wave, I will just sit right behind you and silently diagnose you with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, right from the driver’s seat of my dirty 1995 Volvo. No need to pay for a fancy, schmancy psychiatrist to evaluate you; I’ll do it for free.

3. On the other hand, those of you who speed up to avoid letting people into traffic and keep your eyes fixed on the car in front of you (as though it were filled with naked clown aliens), just to try to look like you don’t see the prospective merger, are clearly suffering from Passive-Aggressive Personality Disorder. Simple as that.

4. Hawking loogies onto the ground, or worse, onto walls, is a symptom of Histrionic Personality Disorder. It is also the very most important factor in diagnosing Pathological Grossness. Keep your mucus to yourself.

5. I had another, but the mention of loogies has made me feel quite nauseated and I really must lie down now.

Upon re-reading this post, I am almost tempted to note that the person who wrote it seems to be suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder, but then I remembered what a wise Psychology professor once told me: “Taking one Abnormal Psych class does not make you qualified to diagnose those around you.” And so I’ll hold my judgment. It’s the right thing to do.

This week’s What I think May Be True But I’m Really Not That Sure Because I Am But One Woman was inspired by the family who sat behind my daughter and me today at Ramona and Beezus. To preface, I get very excited when a G-rated movie hits the theaters. Very excited. The reason for my excitement is two-fold. 1. I am a complete nut job when it comes to keeping inappropriate media away from the eyes and ears of my child and G-rated movies are supposedly free of inappropriate content. (I say supposedly due to the fact that I have been personally offended by some aspect of every single G-rated movie that I have ever seen – ie: Ratatouille made Schindler’s List seem cheery in comparison – but my inexplicable prudishness is a story for another time.) 2. The popcorn. Question: How often do you get the chance to consume upwards of 30 grams of butter-like saturated fat and a week’s worth of sodium, all in the name of family-friendly entertainment? Answer: Not often enough.

But let’s stay on point here: Because I do not watch the news I am able to occasionally forget the fact that the whole world is poor right now. This blissful ignorance, coupled with the fact that I have seen exactly two other movies since the recession began, left me with the antiquated image of Opening Days Past. And when I say past, I’m talking Reagan-era past. Remember the days of packed movie houses, free-flowing New Coke, and Mel Gibson having nothing more to be ashamed of than his sometimes-permed mullet? Yeah, me too. But this is not what greeted our arrival at the 2:20 showing of Ramona and Beezus this afternoon. Instead, we arrived to plenty of front-row parking, one person in front of us in line to buy tickets and a plethora of teenagers in black polyester suits, pretending to be happy to serve us. A tumbleweed or two may have rolled by as we made our way to Theater 10. Once inside, we found that the entire theater was literally empty. We sat in the 5th row, on the edge, and started eating our $8 popcorn. Before long, a few more families came in and settled into their seats, mostly in the very back of the theater. As the lights went down and the previews began, I heard some late arrivals making their way through the door. A woman and her three children entered loudly, blindly feeling around at the walls, and then proceeded to shuffle into the seats directly behind us. I thought that they would surely move once their eyes adjusted to the dark but I was wrong. Dead wrong. Instead, the pack of four (Is it possible that the children themselves were wearing Giorgio Beverly Hills?) began chatting, munching their individual servings of popcorn, sipping their huge sodas and tearing into their crinkly bags and boxes of candy. First of all, were these people billionaires? Have you seen how expensive refreshments are at the movie theater these days?! Secondly, are you effing kidding me here? With at least 200 other available seating options, you are sitting directly behind another family? Since my annoyed glances didn’t do the trick, I grabbed my popcorn, my kid, and my kid’s smuggled-in water bottle and moved up a few rows for the remainder of the movie. The movie was very cute (despite its egregious use of the word “stupid”) and my neck is starting to recover from the strain of staring up at the screen from the second row for 90 minutes.

So, here is this week’s What I Think May Be True But I’m Really Not That Sure Because I Am But One Woman: There are two kinds of people in this world. There are the kind of people who enjoy their personal space and then there are the kind of people who will sit right behind you at the movie theater. I would sooner watch a movie through the little window in the swinging door than sit behind other people in a virtually empty theater. Was this family insane? Were they trying to steal my purse? Were they trying to steal my child? Whatever their issue was, I know that I will do my part to keep my children from growing up to be Personal Space Invaders. Between Swine Flu, Pinworm (my newest phobia) and the plague of children who may or may not be doused in Giorgio Beverly Hills, couldn’t we all just use a little breathing room?

While reading the July issue of Oprah’s magazine yesterday, two things occurred to me:

1) The Photoshopper who made her bunions disappear in the cover shot should win an award of some sort. Alternately: If said bunions actually are gone, her podiatrist should win an award of some sort.

2) Oprah’s monthly What I Know For Sure feature is ridiculously arrogant. Who does she think she is anyway? She may be worth a cool $2.4 billion but that doesn’t make her omniscient. Or is it omnipotent? I can never remember… Either way, I think it takes some pretty big cajones to claim, in writing no less, that you know something, anything, for sure.

Now, in addition to my unnatural interest in Oprah’s bunions, net worth and singing voice, I think it’s fair to say that I’m mildly obsessed with her in general. While I may roll my eyes while I’m watching her show, I have also learned from her magazine that eye-rolling is one of the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.” That is to say, my seemingly innocent eye-rolling could be dooming our relationship to an unstoppable and cataclysmic end. Frankly, I’m not willing to see that happen. I feel that O and I need each other but that she just doesn’t know it yet. In order to show her that I really do care, I’m starting a feature right here on this little blog that will serve as a nod to The Big O. I’m calling it, What I Think May Be True But I’m Really Not That Sure Because I Am But One Woman. It’s called humility. Look it up, Oprah.

Today, this is what I think may be true but I’m really not that sure because I am but one woman: One should never wear anything purchased at Old Navy without underwear. If you, my dear reader, have shopped Old Navy, well then you know what I mean. If you have not, let this serve as a warning. Old Navy clothing can, and often will, spontaneously self-destruct while you are wearing them. Seams will break apart, hems will fall and long-sleeved shirts will choose to become muscle shirts. I do not know why but I feel that it may be an elaborate plot on the part of the United States government to drive discount shoppers underground. I haven’t fully developed this theory but believe me, I will.

By the bye, I’m also looking into whether or not Anthropologie is working in conjunction with The Old Navy Seam-Ripping Collective to eradicate any and all women who have breasts. I’ll keep you updated. You can count on me.

I’m hoping to make this into a weekly feature but I will make you no promises. Why, you ask? Well, because I am but one woman.

The Four Agreements, “Toltec Wisdom,” “Spiritual Warriors,” “Metaphysical” this, that and the other… Ugh. How long have we been hearing about this? How many people have we seen pull a well-worn copy of Don Miguel Ruiz’s book out of their hemp tote as they sip their non-fat, half-caff (with room for 1 Equal and 2 Splendas) latte and pretend to read it? Frankly, I’m over it. And I’ve never even read the book. Sure, I could use some improvement in my life: I could communicate more effectively, I could enhance my relationships. I just don’t see doing this with “Toltec Wisdom.” My main problem with The Four Agreements is Agreement #2: Don’t Take Anything Personally. This feels to me like a relic from the 1980’s Me Generation. And look at where that got us: Insane national debt, a quickly-disappearing ozone layer and women who wear running shoes with their 3-piece suits. I don’t mind saying, “If you are behaving like an idiot/jackass/self-centered maniac and people respond to that in a negative way, TAKE IT PERSONALLY.” By all means, take it personally. It’s about you. Enabling people to stumble through life, plowing people down with their self-obsessed behavior, is wrong. The Four Agreements has been on the market since 1997 and from where I’m standing, the world is less friendly by the moment, communication and contentment are at an all-time low and people are just generally pissed off. So, Don? I think we should agree to disagree. It’s not me, it’s you. I prefer to gain my wisdom from fortune cookies. And from the looks of things, I will be traveling to meet foreign dignitaries soon. Very soon. My bags are packed. Also, my kind demeanor wins me the respect of all whom I meet. Well, duh.

I went to the local community center yesterday to sign my daughter up for a preschool program. A much-coveted spot had finally opened up and I was more than excited to take it. I had called in advance and they were expecting me. A young man of about 20 greeted me at the front desk, shook my hand and said, “You must be Miss Mary!” Um, alrighty… He showed me around and explained the procedures (yes on sunscreen-application assistance, no on butt-wiping assistance) and handed me some forms to fill out. While I was perusing said forms I heard the young man speaking. He was asking somebody a question about the center’s Teen Program. It took me a moment to realize that he was speaking to me. He was asking me if I might have any older children who would be interested in participating in the Teen Program. Pardon me? I finished filling out the forms and placed them gingerly on the counter (as opposed to gingerly up his ass) and hit the bricks.

Then I headed to the drugstore to pick up a box of Nice ‘N Easy with “100% gray coverage”. Mother of a teenager? In your dreams, punk.